Four Novellas of Fear (2010) by Cornell Woolrich

Author:Cornell Woolrich [Woolrich, Cornell]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: A. J. Cornell Publications
Published: 2010-03-14T05:00:00+00:00

MURDER ALWAYS GATHERS MOMENTUM

Paine hung around outside the house waiting for old Ben Burroughs’ caller to go, because he wanted to see him alone. You can’t very well ask anyone for a loan of $250 in the presence of someone else, especially when you have a pretty strong hunch you’re going to be turned down flat and told where to get off, into the bargain.

But he had a stronger reason for not wanting witnesses to his interview with the old skinflint. The large handkerchief in his back pocket, folded triangularly, had a special purpose, and that little instrument in another pocket—wasn’t it to be used in prying open a window?

While he lurked in the shrubbery, watching the lighted window and Burroughs’ seated form inside it, he kept rehearsing the plea he’d composed, as though he were still going to use it.

“Mr. Burroughs, I know it’s late, and I know you’d rather not be reminded that I exist, but desperation can’t wait; and I’m desperate.” That sounded good. “Mr. Burroughs, I worked for your concern faithfully for ten long years, and the last six months of its existence, to help keep it going, I voluntarily worked at half-wages, on your given word that my defaulted pay would be made up as soon as things got better. Instead of that, you went into phony bankruptcy to cancel your obligations.”

Then a little soft soap to take the sting out of it. “I haven’t come near you all these years, and I haven’t come to make trouble now. If I thought you really didn’t have the money, I still wouldn’t. But it’s common knowledge by now that the bankruptcy was feigned; it’s obvious by the way you continue to live that you salvaged your own investment; and I’ve lately heard rumors of your backing a dummy corporation under another name to take up where you left off. Mr. Burroughs, the exact amount of the six months’ promissory half-wages due me is two hundred and fifty dollars.”

Just the right amount of dignity and self-respect, Pauline had commented at this point; not wishy-washy or maudlin, just quiet and effective.

And then for a bang-up finish, and every word of it true. “Mr. Burroughs, I have to have help tonight; it can’t wait another twenty-four hours. There’s a hole the size of a fifty-cent piece in the sole of each of my shoes; I have a wedge of cardboard in the bottom of each one. We haven’t had light or gas in a week now. There’s a bailiff coming tomorrow morning to put out the little that’s left of our furniture and seal the door.

“If I was alone in this, I’d still fight it through, without going to anyone. But, Mr. Burroughs, I have a wife at home to support. You may not remember her, a pretty little dark-haired girl who once worked as a stenographer in your office for a month or two. You surely wouldn’t know her now—she’s aged twenty years in the past two.”

That was about all.

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